The Family Plot (12 page)

So long as the family business kept its head above water. Christ, she hoped she wasn't lying to him.

Gabe gave up, and went to sit on the edge of the fireplace. “That's good to hear, I guess. Dad talks like this thing at Uncle Chuck's is a fresh start, but he talks about a lot of things that don't turn out worth a damn.” He swigged deeply from his soda, and belched hard. “So to hell with him, for tonight. Tell me his ghost story, Dahlia.”

Brad perked up. “Bobby has a ghost story?”

“Everybody's got one, right?” Dahlia dragged a sleeping bag out of Brad's pile. “Everybody who breaks down old buildings for a living ought to have a handful on deck, I swear. Some of the shit I've seen…” She reached for one of the communal duffels, one she'd packed herself with first-aid supplies, extra batteries, and booze. She pulled out a bottle of Maker's Mark and a sleeve of clear plastic cups.

“Whoa … sweet! You brought Maker's!” Brad exclaimed. “Why didn't you just tell Bobby and keep him here so we could … um…?” The question died under the force of Dahlia's pursed lips and lifted eyebrow. “Got it. I didn't realize he was
that
kind of drinker.”

“It's not that he drinks a lot, exactly,” she said as she undid the twist tie that held the cups in the bag. She pulled out three, kept one, and tossed the other two at her remaining crew members. “It's that he's bored and greedy, and if you've got some of anything, he wants it all for himself.”

Gabe nodded, half a smile on his face. “That's a good way to put it. And, um … you don't care if I…?”

“You're a working man now,” she told him. “A couple of years on your driver license don't make a difference to me, so long as you won't go blabbing about it. I'm not an idiot. I know your dad's hooked you up before.”

“But
you
haven't. So … fill 'er up? And what's this ghost story that no one will tell me? Is it about a salvage job?”

She picked at the bottle's seal with her thumbnail. The bright red wax collected on her fingers and under her nails. “No, your Daddy's story didn't come from working salvage. To tell you the truth, it's hardly a story—and he was wrong. He tells it better than I do.” Wriggling the stopper free, she poured herself a slug, then passed the bottle to Brad. He was closer. When he'd poured all he wanted, he forwarded the bottle along to Gabe, who was modest with his own serving—like a girl on a date who doesn't want to order the lobster.

“Thanks,” he said as he sent the bottle back. “I've never had anything this posh.”

“Maker's isn't posh. It's just good. Bottoms up…” She lifted the glass.

“No, we need a toast,” the kid insisted.

“All right, ‘To the Withrow Estate. That I should look so good when I'm 140 years old.'” With a hoisted cup and a swallow, she made it official. “And to ghost stories, too. Bobby's is short and sweet.”

Dahlia took another swig and leaned back into the rolled-up bag pressed against the side of the staircase. She half thought about lighting a fire before launching into the tale, but, like she said—it was short and sweet, and it wasn't that cold yet. Only wet. She didn't know if the fireplace was any good, anyway.

“So Bobby had a part-time gig working as a stock boy at Walmart, on the overnight shift. It was one of those big twenty-four-hour stores, the kind that never closes; but in the wee hours of the morning, there aren't really any customers. That's when they restock all the shelves, and check all the inventory.

“They had Bobby driving this mini-forklift thing, pulling pallets out of the stockroom and bringing them out into the aisles. He'd set them down and go get more, and whoever else was stuck overnight would have to restock the shelves with whatever he brought them. His manager liked to go smoke weed out behind the service entrance, so it wasn't like Bobby had a whole lot of oversight. He ended up spending a lot of time doing wheelies and playing forklift bumper cars with his buddy Drew, who got him the job.

“Anyhow, one night he was absolutely
positive
he heard somebody crying. At first he thought it was coming from the break room, but every time he checked, it was empty. Then he thought maybe someone was hiding back there, messing with him.

“Drew said he'd heard the crying, too—but he didn't know where it was coming from. He'd tried to follow it back to the source, but every time he thought he was getting close … every time he called out, asking if anybody was there … the crying would stop.

“So your dad and Drew got the bright idea that they were going to track down the crier together, and figure out what was going on. The next night, Bobby swore he heard it clear as day—so clear, that this time he was sure it was a woman crying, probably an older woman. Once he realized that, it kind of worried him … like some old lady was trapped inside the store, wandering around all confused. He remembered seeing something on the local news about an Alzheimer patient who went missing after she'd walked out of her nursing home. What if this was that lady? What if she had family looking for her? What if she needed help?

“I think he liked the idea of being a hero as much as he liked the idea of solving that little mystery. Who wouldn't?”

She took another sip, sniffed against the background stink of dust trying to catch fire overhead, and continued. “Now, Bobby didn't have any idea why some senile old lady would wind up roaming a stockroom at a Walmart, much less how she could've hid back there for a couple of days without anyone seeing her, but that was his theory, so he ran with it. The next time he heard the crying, he got off his little forklift and started sneaking around, real quiet. He tagged Drew on the shoulder, held his finger up to his lips, and cocked his head toward the noise.

“Drew nodded at him, because he heard it too, and then they crept around together—up and down the aisles of those big stock shelves that went all the way to the ceiling. According to Bobby, the closer they got, the more the fluorescent lights flickered, like they were about to go out … and then, finally, they turned a corner back by the drinking fountains, and they saw the crying lady.

“Bobby said she had white hair, and she was wearing a housecoat. She had her face to the wall and her shoulders were shaking. Drew froze, but not Bobby—or that's how he tells it. He went up to the lady and touched her on the shoulder. He asked if she was okay, and if he could help her.”

She paused.

Brad said, “And then?” He and Gabe were both looking at her, big-eyed and unblinking.

“And
then,
she turned to look at him … real slow…”

Gabe breathed, “And…?”

“She screamed in his face, and vanished into thin air. She was right there, solid enough that he could touch her, and then she wasn't. There was nothing back in the stockroom but everything Walmart sells, a break room, a couple of drinking fountains, and your daddy and Drew—who fainted dead away.”

“But what'd Drew say? Did you ever ask him?”

“I asked him once.” Another sip and another pour, to top herself off before she ran empty. “He said your dad was full of shit. All he remembered was hearing some funny noise, and going to check it out. Then he hit his head or something, and the paramedics came to give him stitches. He said he never saw any old lady. But I'll tell you this: He didn't want to talk about it, and I find that strange. Drew would talk the ears off a wooden Indian, and he clammed right up when I bugged him for details. That's what makes me think there might be a grain of truth to it.”

Brad's clear plastic cup was still mostly full. He held it like he'd forgotten about it. “Did they ever find the old lady? The one from the nursing home?”

“I have no idea. Let's say yes, so the story makes sense. Let's say they found her frozen to death in a ditch beside the Walmart parking lot.”

“Why would you say that? That's awful.” Gabe frowned and took a ladylike sip of his bourbon.

“So what? It's probably not true. She probably turned up overnight, while accidentally shoplifting a Snickers from a gas station. Your dad and Drew had probably been drinking before their shift, or their manager shared his stash.”

She climbed to her feet too quickly, then steadied herself and her drink.

The photo album she'd found in the trunk was on the floor by her feet. She picked it up and tucked it under her arm. “On that note,” she said, “I need a shower. Desperately. My stuff's already upstairs in that master bedroom, so I'm going to go ahead and clean myself up now.”

“Let me know how it works out,” Brad asked. He caught himself. “Wait, that sounded weird. Just … what I meant was, tell me if there's hot water. And tell me if it's clean, or if it looks more like bourbon than Mr. Bubble.”

She flashed him a thumbs-up, turned around, and grabbed the staircase railing. “I'll be back down in a bit. Don't finish the bottle without me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Brad promised.

Up the stairs she climbed, past the handprints that remained on the rail at the landing because no one had wiped them off, not even her; and she proceeded up to the second-floor hallway. She flipped a switch, and the hall light failed her. The bulb was dead, or the fixture. Either way, it didn't work.

She went to the room she'd claimed for her own and tried the switch there, just inside the doorway. With a click and a fuzzy pop, the ceiling fan's bulbs flickered and brightened, and the blades began to turn.

“Ugh. No,” she told it. She reached up for the chain pull and, after a few tries, stopped the spinning blades. It wasn't warm enough for that, and it'd only spread the dust around. Her eyes and nose were already itching again, and maybe there was another headache on deck. Maybe she should pop a couple of Benadryl on top of the booze. She'd sleep like the dead. That'd be nice.

Her bags were sitting on the oversized window seat. She unpacked them enough to takeout what she wanted, and left the rest tidily stored—with the Withrow photo album resting on top of her work pants.

She retrieved a set of fleece pajamas and a black tank top, some socks and underwear, a bottle of all-in-one shampoo and soap, and a bath towel. Carrying it all in one stack, she mentally crossed her fingers that the lights in the bathroom would work—because showering in the dark was no damn fun, and she didn't want to hike back downstairs to grab a lantern.

She should've brought one up, but the Maker's had her half mellow, half petulant. Or it might not have been the Maker's. It might have been a yellow dress, or an album full of faded pictures on brittle black paper. Or Bobby. Or Andy, who wasn't even there to be mad at, but somehow always hovered at the edge of her thoughts. Jesus, it'd been months since the divorce was filed. One of these days, he'd
have
to go away for good. Wouldn't he? God knew
he'd
moved on.

Fuck it.

She needed a shower, that was all. A little hot water and soap would make everything better. After that, a nightcap, if the boys had left her anything.

(They would. Of course they would. But she should get the bottle before Bobby came back. Bobby could buy his own hooch, and leave hers alone.)

The light switch in the bathroom was a discolored plastic push button. She hit it with her thumb, and the vanity lights flared. One bulb coughed and blew out, leaving a dark cloud of soot inside where the glow ought to be. The other two wobbled, but stayed lit. They gave off an ugly light, neither warm nor cool, just shrouded with grime.

Eh. It beat showering in the dark.

She dropped her bundle of nighttime supplies on the closed toilet lid, leaned inside the tub, and wrenched the hot water knob until the spout provided a rusty liquid that cleared by the count of twenty.

There wasn't any shower curtain. She should've brought one, and she kicked herself for not thinking of it. She'd add it to her list of not-exactly-camping supplies for the next time a job like this came around. Yes, she had a list. It was a shitty, incomplete list, but it was better than nothing at all—and, hey, Bobby'd been impressed when she'd produced a tablecloth.

But the list was a work in progress.

Steam rose up from the spout. When Dahlia ran her hand under the water's flow, she was glad to feel that it was properly hot and the water pressure was good, even if it smelled like old metal and mildew. She held her head out of the way and tugged the tiny lever that would switch the faucet to “shower” mode, and the spray fluttered, coughed, and then gushed out nicely.

She tweaked the cold knob, just a hair.

The evening was looking up, even if she was going to soak the floor because she hadn't thought to bring a shower curtain. Or an extra towel to use for a mat. Extra towels were never a bad idea, anyway.

The porcelain tile floor grew slick with damp, as the droplets scattered and the room filled with warm mist and fog. That same funny smell of burning crept into the bathroom as the soft stench of lightbulbs warmed up and toasted the dust that'd gathered there.

The dry corpse of a spider toppled into the sink, and rolled down the drain.

Dahlia leaned her butt on the edge of the vanity and stripped off her clothes, starting with her socks and work boots. When she was naked, she went in toe first—one foot over the edge and into the tub, for the sides were tall and slippery. She bent over, held on, stepped up, and swung her other foot inside—into the stream of scalding water, shooting out hard enough to blast the paint off a car.

“Perfect…,” she breathed. She stood up straight, smoothed her hair back, closed her eyes, and plunged her face into the cascade.

The bathroom shook. It flickered and buckled, as if it'd been struck by lightning.

Dahlia staggered and slipped. She caught herself, grasping the showerhead pipe for balance.